The garden has ignited.
It's feverish. Even the white clematis
flutters with sun,
and the red lilies and coral bells
burn back at it. Windblown petals
of cardinals flash
across the buttery primroses:
a good year for gardens.
I write this standing at my window.
I don't go down into the garden.
From here I see everything
at once, all the flowers trapped
in color, in their showy, slow
ignition - petal, pistil, leaf and stamen
separating off. Perhaps
there is a way
out of such fiery
gorgeousness. It must
be wearing. Even at night... Read more
TAGS: creative writing